Iolanthe

I first experienced punishment in grade three at primary school

As Earl our gangley principal played out the golden rule

"whom the lord loveth he chastiseth" were the mores of the day

Following convention... who was he to change the way?

I once passed on a rumour about a girl's sister and what she'd done

Earl searched out the mongers, and rounded us up every one

He reluctantly delivered justice from the era he belonged

And with his pithy jointed stem, hurt us, but not for long

He played his nervous part quite well and lucidly explained the rules

Said he was old, impatient and would lightly suffer fools

It was our first time 'up the office', Davo and Mick and me

He was almost apologetic as he dished out one two three

*

But my next door friend and neighbour Tony running from his Dad,

the latter's hand hovering to punish cos he'd been bad

with a backlift more worthy of a golfer than a father to a child

It made old Earl's reluctant efforts from the school look rather mild

We were always playing cricket and took turns to bowl the ball

We'd bat against the test team up against the garage wall

Then like a suddenly savage dog, his father took to him

Did he forget to make his bed or bring the garbage in?

But for Tony's lightweight frame he was as solid as a rock

resisting affliction from infliction, it seemed, around the clock

Violent escalation daily with the next bout coming round

The impact on his body caused his feet to leave the ground

I could feel the feeling that I felt but right then I wasn't sayin'

Horror at the violence where neither one could gain

Disbelieving at the principles of fair play that were wrecked

Amazement at the level of force received which seemingly had no effect

Tony without contrition steeled up an inpenetrable wall

resolute in determination lest his disposition pall

The father didn't spare the rod for fear to spoil the child

And what he gave him yesterday, tomorrow would seem mild

He couldn't break him down though I never saw him cry

It was like the father's anger was complementary to that little guy

Outraged and somewhat frightened that our pitch was now a ring

It certainly wasn't cricket as he acted out his thing

as the bowler was totally punished from that crazy basher's hand

I stepped back surreptiously not to antagonize the man

Invited to the Mikado where this Ackroyd was to sing

Why would we want to be entertained by such a man as him.

How could such a person like that ever sing at all?

Would the general tenor of his actions ever entertain our hall?

My parents scarcely knew him yet accepted the invitation

but I couldn't visualise Ackroyd in any artistic creation

I said you know he beats his son to my egalitarian Mum

Maybe he deserves it, son, you don't know what he's done

Iolanthe! Iolanthe! he was way beyond the band

Scarcely visible in the choir with no intimidating solo hand

When the song was over and it was time for approbation

I clasped my own hands really tight and glared in indignation

I wondered where his mother was as I witnessed repeated crimes

Did she know her little Anthony was assaulted many times?

Does she ignore it or was he clever to avoid her observation?

or perhaps it was she, guilty, of a secret orchestration

When it came to be my turn to dish the discipline around

I scrutinised, reflected on what I'd seen and what I'd found

It makes not a sceric of difference to behaviour I realise

Volume, strength, pain or wrath or overbearing parental size

So when my kids are naughty and need me to be firm but kind

I spare the child the body pain, addressing just their mind

They get a flick, or the threat of one, that would hardly hurt a fly

And rarely if they get one, unlike Anthony, they cry

copyright 1999 Blue Who & Old Shoe